


Evangeline

by justcallmeasmodeus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 03:24:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15899895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justcallmeasmodeus/pseuds/justcallmeasmodeus
Summary: You are broken, can Dean put you back together again?





	Evangeline

“He loved me.” The words ripped through your raw throat as you cried out to the growing flames. A pair of strong arms attached to a sad face held you back, and green eyes looked on soberly from your right side. The last ten years of your life, everything you knew, was burning in front of you. “Why?” The word was ragged and the green eyes softened. 

“Sometimes doing the right thing hurts.” 

You watched the flames turn to embers in silence. Sam’s restraining embrace turned into a comforting one as the reality set in and you stopped fighting. You sat down, your body trembling as shock set in. Sam shrugged out of his flannel and draped it over your shoulders, and you pulled it close around you. You sought comfort, it offered little. Tears continued leaking from your eyes as Sam and Dean cleaned up. 

“What I am supposed to do now?” Your voice was weak and quiet, and when you didn’t get an immediate reply you wondered if they had even heard you.

“You move on.” Dean’s voice was quiet and sincere. 

“Dean,” Sam chided, his gaze unreadable. Dean looked from you to him, and you could sense an unspoken conversation on the air. 

“You can stay with us until you figure something else out. We’ll help you.” You nodded, too weak to say anything more, all your other options in a pile of ash before you.

 

Three days passed uneventfully. It was the longest Sam and Dean had been home in almost a year.

“I don’t understand. He was an Injuria, the physical embodiment of abuse, how does she not have a scratch on her?” Sam whispered across the table to Dean.

“One, you don’t have to whisper. She’s in the shower.” Dean reached for the uneaten bacon on Sams plate and shrugged. “Two, maybe she was right. Maybe he did love her.” 

“He was a monster Dean, they’re inherently incapable of love.” Dean’s jaw tightened and he looked away from Sam, dropping the half finished bacon down to his own plate. Sam’s face softened as he realized what he had said. “That’s not what I-”

“It’s improbable, not impossible.” 

Dean pushed his chair back and walked out of the room, leaving Sam to clean up the dishes. He absentmindedly pulled down the sleeves of his flannel even though the Mark was long gone. He gave you a small smile as he passed you in the hallway, too caught up in himself to notice you immediately averted your gaze when he met your eyes. He needed a new hunt, to get moving. The memories were starting to catch up.

He did notice it the next morning when you walked out for coffee.

“Morning.” He grunted, lifting his gaze from a search for a new case to give you a polite smile.

“Morning.” You chirped, meeting his eyes for a moment before looking to your feet.

He squinted ever so slightly, the wheels in his mind turning as he turned his attention back to his computer. He had associated your silence with grief, but had he read the signs wrong? Was there something more there? Was he glancing over something big, or was he overreacting and trying to make a case out of nothing?

“Morning.” Sam called as he walked from the kitchen to the bathroom after his morning run.

“Hey, what do you think of Y/N?” Sam stopped and turned toward him.

“Really Dean? She just lost her husband 4 days ago.”

“I’m not,” Dean sighed and rolled his eyes, “would you just answer the question?”

“I don’t know.” Sam shrugged. “She’s shy, usually hangs out in her room. She’s always polite when I check on her, but she’s quiet.”

“Does she look away when you talk to her, or does she hold eye contact?” 

“What are you getting at Dean?”

“I think we’ve been going at this all wrong. You don’t have to be hit to be abused.”

“And you’re sure about this?”

“Not yet.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Keep moving.”

“Well, there’s a case out in Oklahoma. I saw it in the paper while on my run. Sounds like werewolves, are you in? We can leave after my shower.”

“Yeah, I’ll go pack.” 

While Sam continued to head to the bathroom for his shower Dean made his way to the kitchen to talk to you. 

 

You were standing by the coffee maker, head down, body language drooping. You gripped an old chipped coffee cup in your hands like it was the only thing holding you to reality. You watched the coffee percolate, willing your mind to stay blank. You jumped when Dean cleared his throat behind you, nearly dropping the coffee cup.

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled, quickly wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. “Did you need something?” You swallowed hard around the lump in your throat, willing it to go away.

“Are you okay?” His eyes were soft and full of concern.

“Yeah, yeah I’m good.” You studied the counter in front of him as if it held the answers to every question your life presented. You noted that it was dirty and could use a good scrub down.

“Sam and I are going to head out of town for a few days. Are you going to be okay on your own?” 

“Yeah I’ll be fine.” You lifted your gaze to meet his eyes to answer the question.

He studied your face for a moment, and you wondered if he could see right through you. Could he see you drowning in the middle of this black sea? Could he see through the walls that you built up, through the lies you forced yourself to believe? Could he see the scars on your soul?

“I’ll grab you a cell phone so we can keep in touch while we’re gone.” He smiled and made his way toward the rooms.

You sighed, letting your body droop once more. You turned and poured your coffee, listening to the echos in your brain as quiet settled upon the bunker.

_ You’re worthless. You’re lucky I love you, no one else ever did or ever will.  _

 

After two days alone the echos had turned to screams. You had counted every cinderblock in the bedroom wall six times. There were 126. The cellphone Dean had given you hadn’t rang once, but you weren’t sure why you had expected it to in the first place. What help could you offer them? They had been doing this by themselves for years, and you had only known fairy tale monsters were real for a week. 

You should leave, but you had nowhere to go. Your friends and family had long since been run off. It took losing Martin to realize just how much he had taken from you. You had lost your home, your family, your career, and yourself. Without direction you were a waste of space and oxygen. 

Someone else was walking your body to the bathroom. You felt numb to the soul, like you were moving through deep water. You watched your arm open the medicine cabinet and your hand grab the bottle of pills. When the medicine cabinet door closed you stared at the stranger in the mirror and wondered where she came from. Your lip quivered as she whispered an apology. You weren’t sure if it was to you, the voice in your head, or to Sam and Dean.

You jumped as the phone in your hand rang, sending the bottle of pills crashing to the floor. You didn’t remember grabbing it on your way to the bathroom, but your left hand gripped it so hard your knuckles were white.

“Hello?” You answered tentatively, your voice thick from two days of silence.

“Hey Y/N! Sorry we didn’t call sooner, there was no service. We’re on our way back, we should be home in a few hours.” Sam’s voice was tired yet chipper, and you focused on it to push Martin’s voice out of your head. “We’ll see you when we get back okay?”

“Yeah, see you then.” You tried to force a smile to your face as you turned and leaned your back against the bathroom wall. “I’ll make dinner.” 

“That would be amazing. Thank you.”

Sam hung up the phone as a fresh round of tears ran down your face. You slid down the wall and pulled your knees to your chest as you tried to find some piece of yourself left. You turned your head to the side and saw the bottle of pills laying next to you. Anger flashed through your system, causing you to grab the bottle and throw it across the room with a scream.

You watched it fly, crash and fall. You watched it roll on the floor, momentarily mesmerized by the effect you had. It was a trivial thing, but it sparked something inside of you. If you could move a pill bottle, then you could still have an effect on the world. You noticed some soap scum in the corner, and you remembered how the kitchen counter needed a good scrub down. 

Forcing yourself to your feet, you took a deep shaking breath and pulled your hair into a ponytail. Martin’s voice screamed at you in your head, so your first stop was the library. There was a stack of records by a record player, so you put one on at random. Led Zeppelin filled the bunker, and you focused on the rhythm to clear your mind.

Three hours later you had scrubbed the front of the bunker from top to bottom. The stagnant air was gone, replaced by the citrus undertones of cleaner. There was a fresh pie cooling on the counter, and you just finished setting the table when you heard Sam and Dean pull into the garage. You walked out to the library and stopped the music, carefully putting the records back just as you found them. When you made it back to the kitchen Sam and Dean were standing in the doorway, their mouths slightly a jar. You felt your stomach drop in fear.

“I’m sorry I should ha-” You tumbled over your words as you tried to get out an apology before the yelling would start.

“Is that pie?” Dean interrupted, dropping his bag on the spot and making his way over to a chair.

“Yes…” You met their looks of astonishment with a look of confusion. “I made lasagna too.”

“This is amazing.” Sam’s bag joined Dean’s on the floor as he sat down opposite Dean while you sat the lasagna in the middle of the table. 

You brushed off the compliments as the bunker was filled with the sounds of clinking dinnerware and Sam and Dean’s story of the werewolves in Oklahoma. Afterwards Sam headed to his room to unpack, and Dean sat on his laptop with you in the kitchen while you cleaned up dinner. For now the voice in your head was silenced. 

 

After you went to bed Sam and Dean sat together in the library sharing a six pack of beer. Sam was flipping the pages of a lore book, and Dean was searching through police reports.

“Don’t you think we should take a breather?” Sam sighed as he heard Dean click over to another website. “We haven’t even been home for a full night. I need a break.”

“Sorry Sammy, monsters don’t take our feelings into consideration.”

“I’m not asking the monsters, I’m asking you.” 

Dean stopped typing and sighed. When he looked up, he really looked at Sam. He looked worn down and tired, with bags under his eyes and desperation in them. Dean closed his laptop and finished his beer before standing up.

“I’m going to go take a shower. Goodnight Sam.” 

In the bathroom Dean stood in front of the mirror, barely recognizing the face that stared back at him. They needed a break, Dean knew that, but the longer he stayed in one place with nothing to focus on, the harder it became to keep the memories at bay. He rubbed his face before turning around to face the showers. He stopped when he noticed the pill bottle in the corner, and his heart dropped when he realized that he still had a case here. 

 

Dean didn’t mention looking for another case again, and Sam was glad to not bring it up. Over the next week you settled into a routine. You would take care of the boys by cleaning and cooking, and then you would sit with them for a bit before going to bed. There was small talk exchanged at night, but never anything more. After six nights, Dean tried a different approach.

“Hey Y/N?” He asked, setting down his beer and staring at you from across the living room.

“Hmmm?” You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t look up from your book.

“What do you like to do for fun?”

“I don’t know.” With your guards down, answer was out before you could stop it.

“What do you mean you don’t know? There’s got to be something.” 

“I don’t remember.” You shrugged, trying to shrug away the harsh truth. “Martin always picked what we did, so now I can’t remember the difference of what I like and what I told myself I liked to make him happy.” 

Dean sat down his beer, his lips slightly parted in disbelief. Sam watched the conversation from over the top of his book, carefully observing. Dean swallowed hard, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth as he thought of how to proceed.

“We’re going to change that.” He stood up abruptly, grabbing your hand and pulling you out of your chair.

“Dean where are we going?” You pulled against him, unsure of his sudden enthusiasm. He paused, taking a breath to calm himself before continuing.

“I’m sorry, but please trust me? It’s nothing bad, I promise.”

You bit your top lip as your mind raced, but you nodded and allowed Dean to lead you down the hallway. Your brow knit in confusion as he led you into the weight room and pulled you over by the punching bag. He stood you off to the side before he positioned himself in front of it. He planted his feet and shook out his shoulders before pulling his arms up into position, his hands balled into fists that were level with his chin.

“When I need to clear my head and get away from myself, I come to the bag.” He punched the bag a few times. “You can picture the bag as whatever or whoever you want. It might seem archaic, but it really does help.” He punched the bag a few more times before catching and stopping it. “Here, you try.”

He moved out of the way and you tentatively stepped into his place. You balled your hands into weak fists and brought them to chin level, repeating what you had seen Dean do. You threw a weak punch as Martin’s voice started in the back of your mind.

_ You don’t need to know how to fight. I’ll protect you. You’re too weak to do much damage anyways. _

You grit your teeth against the tears but they fell anyways, so you punched harder. Your arms protested after a few swings, and your fists were now clenched so tight that your nails were biting half moon’s into your palms, but you kept hitting. Dean stood by and watched you quietly, his sharp gaze filled with a sad knowing. When you finally stopped your knuckles were raw and your arms were shaking. You slumped to your knees in the gym, your body weak but your mind blissfully empty. 

“Were you thinking about him?” Dean knelt  beside you, reaching his hand out slowly and placing it on your shoulders. You nodded.

“Who do you think of?” You looked over at him and this time he was the one to look away. You could see the change in his posture as he let his walls down, if only for a second.

“Myself.”

 

For the next six months you trained with Dean every day. He taught you about guns, self defense, offense, how to shoot a bow, and how to field dress wounds. When he and Sam left for hunts you stayed back, helping from the library and making sure the bunker stayed clean and orderly. 

You were standing at the punching bag waiting on Sam and Dean to get home from a two week long hunt, going through your newest routine in a sports bra and pair of leggings. Your hair was braided down your back and the music flowing through your earbuds blocked out the world, letting you focus on burning the physical action into your mind until it became second nature. You felt the door to the gym open and close through the vibrations in the floor, and a smile came to your face as you finished the last few combinations before pulling your earbuds out and turning towards the door. Dean was leaning against it, a sly smile spread across his face as his eyes traveled over your body.

“What are you looking at?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You.” Dean strode over, standing behind you and placing his hands on your hips, centering them over your feet. It was something he had done a hundred times before, but this time his fingers lingered. You had exchanged banter for six weeks, but you always brushed off his words. Actions were harder to deny. “You’re beautiful.” He leaned forward slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away, and placed a gentle kiss on your collar bone, causing your skin to break out into goosebumps. 

_ He’s lying. _

“Dean I-” You hesitated, Martin’s voice still echoing in your mind.

“Please Y/N/N. Let me show you.” He continued pressing kisses up your neck, obliterating any protests that you had.

“Okay.” You breathed, relaxing and allowing him to pull your body tight against his.

He spun you around so you were facing him, one hand cradling the back of your head and the other arm wrapped around your back. He pressed his lips to yours, sighing contently against you. You wrapped your arms around his neck, one hand running through the hair on the back of his head and the other reaching under his shirt, searching for that skin on skin contact. 

Dean picked you up, his hands holding you close as you wrapped your legs around his waist. You kissed your way along his jawline down to his neck, drawing out a groan as Dean made his way down the hallway. You rocked your hips against him as he opened the door to his room, your body taking over and shutting down your over active brain. 

Dean Winchester never said he loved you, but he never hesitated to show you. He said it in the way he tore the fabric from your body and with the look in his eyes. His hands whispered it with feather light touches and possessive caresses. His lips burned it into your skin, and he made you feel beautiful.

 

Three years later you were tied to a chair watching Dean go hand to hand with a witch. You were struggling to untie yourself, the memories of hundreds of practices lost in the hecticism of a real fight.

_ All you know how to do is fail. _

Martin’s voice cut through your jumble of thoughts. You could feel your resolve breaking as tears burned the back of your throat. You stopped struggling and slumped in the chair.

_ You are beautiful. _

Dean’s voice echoed through your mind, drowning out Martin’s. You clenched your jaw as a fresh wave of determination washed over you. You took a deep breath and calmed yourself enough to work your way out of your restraints. You looked up as you untied yourself and saw the witch pick up Dean’s gun. She was focused on pinning him against the wall while she aimed, and your feet were moving before your brain could catch up.

The gunshot echoed through your entire body seconds before the white hot pain hit. A second gunshot rang out and you flinched, but this time it was the witch that fell. You turned to see your gun in Dean’s hands over your shoulder. You smiled at him before you crumpled.

“Y/N!” Dean caught you before you could hit the floor. “No, no, no. You’re going to be okay Y/N/N.”

“Dean, stop.” You could tell by the look on his face. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“Y/N…”

“My life is mine because you gave it back to me. The world needs you Dean.”

“But I need you.”

You could feel yourself slipping. Your vision was blurring, and everything felt heavy. You struggled to lift your hand and bring it to Dean’s face. He turned into it, and you wiped away the tear that fell with your thumb.

“Don’t shut out the world.” You closed your eyes as Dean pulled you close, and you took a deep breath. 

“I love y-” you felt his voice rumble through his chest. 

You opened your eyes, and you were alone in the gym in the bunker. You fell to your knees in front of the punching bag, trying to hold on to the smell of Dean as it faded away.


End file.
